Dead Freight for Piute

by Short, Luke;

  “I don’t see how it was done,” he said finally to his deputy. “Somebody on top must have seen who did it.”

  “Hunh-unh. On night shift the gradin’ shed is closed down. The ore skips is tripped into a big storage crib to be unloaded in the mornin’. The only man workin’ on the top is the hoistman, and he’s night watchman too. They slugged him, broke into the powder shed, and while the hull damn camp was sleepin’ they loaded the skip, put a long fuse to the stuff and let her go down, then rode off.”

  At the sheriff’s office Linton didn’t even dismount. “Hunt Girard up and talk to him. When he’s calmed down enough to talk send for me.” He remembered something then and said, “Did you say ‘they’?”

  “What?” the deputy asked blankly.

  “How many men did the job? You said they slugged him over the head.”

  “He don’t know,” the deputy replied. “I just figured it would take more than one of ’em—Monarch men, I reckon.”

  “Ah-h-h!” Linton snarled and pulled his horse around into the street. Here it was again. Four men dead in a mine explosion and again the finger of suspicion pointed toward Monarch. Toward Keen Billings in particular. Could Keen have ridden out there last night and done it? He could have. He would have had the time—but barely enough. But did he? Linton shook his head, silently voicing his denial. No, Billings wouldn’t have done it, for he was afraid now. Then who did?

  At Billings’ hotel, the Piute, Linton dismounted and went into the lobby.

  “Billings been brought in yet?” he asked the clerk.

  “They carried him up a little while ago,” the clerk said. “What happened?”

  “He tripped on a match,” Linton snarled.

  He climbed the stairs, found Billings’ room and knocked. There was a muffled sound in answer, and he went in. Billings was lying on the bed, the remains of his shirt off. His thick-muscled body was a mass of welts and bruises and cuts. His face, when he raised his head to look at Linton, was so swollen that it reminded Linton of soft, unset dough.

  “Did you get him?” Billings groaned.

  “You were trespassing,” Linton said sternly. “He warned you off, and you stuck there. He was standing on his rights, Keen.”

  “Who?”

  “Who what?”

  “Who was standing on his rights?”

  “Cornwall, you lughead.”

  It was a struggle for Keen Billings to sit up, but he did. Then he said in a voice filled with wrath, “You damn fool, Cornwall didn’t beat me up! Cole Armin did!”

  Linton stared at him and then smiled beneath his mustache. “You’re loco, Keen. Cornwall beat you up.”

  “Armin did, I tell you!” Billings shouted. “Don’t you think I know who I was fightin’?”

  “No, I don’t,” Linton countered. “Cornwall had the shirt ripped off him. There was blood on his face and his hands. He’d been in a rough and tumble if I ever saw a man who was.” He paused. “You sure you feel all right, Keen?”

  Billings swore blisteringly. “It’s a frame-up, Ed—a frame-up, I tell you.” He told, between curses of his attempted deal with Cornwall, of Cole’s entrance, of his words with Cole and of finally remembering the peace bond. But he had gone too far. How was he to know that Armin was sweet on Wallace’s sister? That had brought on the fight, and he had been horsewhipped.

  Linton listened carefully and then said, “But, dammit, Cornwall and his teamsters all claimed Cornwall fought you!”

  “They’re shieldin’ Armin!” Billings yelled. “Go arrest him and get him out of the way!”

  Linton shook his head slowly. “No chance, Keen—not with nine men calling me a liar I don’t arrest Cole Armin. I want to stay sheriff here long enough to get our business done. He wouldn’t stand for an arrest now anyway. He’d fight first—after what’s happened.”

  “This scrap, you mean? He come off winner, so what’s—”

  “I don’t mean this scrap,” Linton said grimly. “I’m talkin’ about somethin’ else. I don’t think you’ll like to hear it either.”

  Billings looked carefully at him, warned by the expression on the sheriff’s face.

  “What?”

  “Where were you last night from eleven o’clock on?” he asked.

  “You ought to know,” Billings said slowly, warily. “We sat in a game for an hour.”

  “And after that?”

  “I come to bed.” He was still watching Linton, sensing something was wrong. “Why?”

  Linton said grimly, “Somebody slugged the hoistman at the China Boy last night. They loaded the skip with powder, lowered it, blew in three galleries of the China Boy and killed, four men.” He added dryly, “So the Western’s China Boy contract ain’t worth the paper it’s written on for four-five months.”

  Billings was utterly motionless for a moment, and then he scrambled off the bed and lunged for the door. He locked it, then raced for the window shade and pulled it down. Then he said hoarsely, “Where’s Cole Armin?”

  “Scared, Keen?” Linton drawled, amusement in his voice.

  “Is—is he comin’ up here for me?” Billings asked huskily.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Listen,” Billings said. “You go down in the lobby. When you see him come in you hold him off until I have time enough.”

  “For what?”

  “To get out of here!” Billings said hoarsely. He dived into the closet. From out of it he threw a war bag and a pile of clothes and boots. When he came out again Linton was leaning against the foot of the bed. He held a gun in his hand, a small pocket gun, and it was pointed at Billings.

  “Sit down, Keen,” he drawled.

  Billings sank into a chair, his face a pasty gray under its bruises.

  “Just sit there and think a minute,” Linton said. “Just think.”

  Billings tried to speak and failed. He tried again and the words came this time. “All right, Ed. What?”

  “You ain’t pullin’ out of here, Keen. What about our deal?”

  “To hell with the deal!” Billings groaned.

  “So you say. I don’t. I say it’s goin’ through.”

  “But Armin will kill me! Ed, I swear I didn’t blow up the China Boy! But he won’t believe me! He’ll kill me!”

  “I’ll hide you,” Linton said calmly. “He can’t kill you if he can’t find you, Keen.”

  “Yuh,” Billings said dully, staring at the floor. “Yuh, that’s right.”

  Linton walked over to Billings and slapped him sharply across the face. “Damn you, Keen. Wake up! You’re not dead yet, and you won’t be if you listen to me.” Still Keen didn’t look up, and Linton said impatiently, “Got any whisky in the room?”

  “In the top drawer,” Billings said thickly. Linton pocketed the gun, got the whisky from the dresser, uncorked the bottle and handed it to Keen. “Take a long swig of that.”

  Keen, docile as a child, obeyed. His hands were trembling as he tilted the bottle. He took one drink and then another, and Sheriff Linton, his eyes cold and alert, watched him cynically. The whisky helped. Keen rubbed his eyes, shook his head and then said in a quiet voice, “I’m all right, Ed.”

  “Got over your scare?”

  “No. Neither would you if all this was pointin’ to you instead of me.” He looked up at Ed. “I tell you, Ed, he’ll hunt me down and kill me. He was killin’ mad over that sawed brake lever. But this—why, hell, this finishes it.”

  Sheriff Linton laughed softly. “Sure it does, you fool. It almost finishes Western too. Now what’s there left to do in the rest of our little scheme?”

  “I dunno,” Billings said dumbly.

  “Get a hold on yourself!” Linton said sharply. “Our plan was to whittle both the Monarch and the Western down. All right, Western is whittled down. Now all we got to do is whittle Monarch down one more notch. And then Craig Armin will be where Western is now—and he’ll play his last card. He’ll call you in, pay you enough money to satisfy you
and then tell you to wipe out Armin and Wallace.”

  “Ed,” Billings said dully, “who blew up the China Boy?”

  “Aren’t you listenin’, you fool!” Linton flared up. “Didn’t you hear me?”

  “I heard you,” Billings said. He took another swig of whisky from the bottle. “All right. Go ahead.”

  “There isn’t any more!” Linton said harshly. He walked over to Billings and again he slapped him savagely across the face. He did it twice, and when Billings ducked his head into his arms Linton backed off.

  “My God, man, are you in a trance?” he raged.

  “I’m all right, Ed. Quit it. Quit it, I tell you. I’ve heard every word you’ve said. You’re right. You’re dead right.” He looked at him. “But can you hide me so Armin can’t find me?”

  “I can,” Linton said sharply. “Do you think he’s got eyes that can look through walls?”

  “Maybe he has,” Billings said. “He’s got everything else.”

  “You’ve got a big, wide, woolly stripe of yellow up your back, Keen,” Linton sneered. “That’s your trouble.”

  “I guess it is,” Keen agreed calmly.

  “You won’t go yellow on me, my friend,” Linton said ominously. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with you. I’m going to rent the room just ahead of this one. And you’re goin’ to stay in it. Cole Armin is goin’ to look for you. And I’m goin’ to stick with him the whole damn night until I prod him into a fight and jail him. And then do you know what you’re goin’ to do, my friend, while he’s hunting you?”

  “What?” There was a spark of interest in Keen’s face now.

  “You’re goin’ to take a greener and blast a shot at Craig Armin—a shot so close he’ll think he’s dead!”

  Keen didn’t say anything.

  Linton went on: “That alibis Armin. He’ll be in jail. But it also gets Craig Armin wild. It’s the last shove. You’ll get your orders from him tomorrow to take care of Cole and Ted Wallace. I’ll free Cole Armin then.” He leaned back against the dresser. “With Cole Armin free and Craig Armin wild we got what we’re after at last. From there on in it’s a downhill drag.”

  “I see,” Billings said quietly.

  Linton watched him with shrewd eyes, waiting for him to pick holes in the argument. But Keen didn’t, because there weren’t any holes. It was tight. It was nice. But there was just one thing wrong in the picture, and stubbornly Keen could not forget it.

  “Look, Ed. Don’t get sore now, will you? I want to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Billings spread his hand and ticked off counts on his fingers. “First, Ted Wallace is shoved downstairs and his leg broke. Second, that brake lever on Armin’s wagon is sawed. Third, the China Boy is blowed up, and four—”

  “And all those things have helped us, haven’t they?” Linton interrupted. “They made Western mad enough to burn the Monarch down. It made Armin mad enough to threaten your life and get a peace bond slapped on him so he couldn’t fight us. What are you kickin’ about?”

  “I want to know who done it all!” Billings wailed. “So would you if you had to stay locked in a hotel room while Armin hunted you!”

  “But what does it matter?” Linton insisted. “You’re alive.”

  “I got a feelin’,” Billings said gloomily.

  “What?”

  “Somebody has took this right out of our hands,” he said, raising his gaze to Linton. “Somebody knows what we’re tryin’ to do. And before we can finish it we’re goin’ to get it.”

  “That’s damn foolishness!” Linton said.

  “It couldn’t be you, workin’ with somebody else, could it, Ed?” Billings said steadily.

  “Be careful,” Linton warned coldly.

  “Because all this falls on me,” Billings went on stubbornly. “I’m the ranahan that Cole Armin is huntin’!”

  “You’re Monarch’s manager. Who else would he hunt? Not me.”

  “I just wondered,” Billings said slowly. “It seems mighty damn queer.”

  “But not so queer you’ll back out, Keen,” Linton said, iron in his voice. “Because I’ve got enough to hang you, my friend, and you gave it to me—free. Remember who killed Joyce at Acme? Think that over.”

  They glared suspiciously at each other for a long moment, and then Billings’ glance slid away. Linton said, “Wait right here till I rent this next room. Leave your clothes here, and move in next door. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He unlocked the door and stepped outside. In the hall, now darkening in the late-afternoon dusk, he paused and stared down the corridor. So Keen thought he was crossing him, selling him out. Linton hadn’t thought of it before, but why not? Once Cole Armin and Wallace were dead what was to stop him from doing just that—getting Monarch for himself?

  It was an idea anyway. He’d have to think it over. As he walked down the stairs he was smiling faintly under his silky and handsome mustache.

  16

  When Girard finished telling Ted Wallace of the China Boy explosion none of them—Cole, Celia, Juck or Ted—said anything immediately. There wasn’t much to say anyway in the face of blank ruin.

  “It’s murder,” Girard said. “I’ve got to face the families of those four men! And what can I tell them? That Monarch killed them, that the sheriff—even if he could get proof—is scared to use it and that all we can do is take it.”

  Ted said miserably, “You haven’t got any ore on top that we could haul, Girard?”

  “You know I haven’t,” Girard replied. “The mine was closed down until the Monarch’s freightin’ trial and yours.”

  Ted looked over at Celia. “Well, I reckon that does it. We’re sunk. I don’t know what the bank will do about my note. I borrowed on the face of your contract, Girard. They won’t take it now. And I’ll have to sell some of the wagons and stock for collateral for the money I borrowed for Cole’s bond.”

  Cole, who was closest the door, went out into the living room. His war bag lay in the corner behind a chair, and he was squatting over it when Girard went out the door, announcing, “Well, I’m going to raise hell with that fancy-pants sheriff, Cole. Won’t do any good though.”

  “I reckon not,” Cole said quietly and Girard went down the steps.

  Cole fumbled among his stuff and found his gun and belt. He had put them in there last night, hoping he wouldn’t have to use them and afraid that he would. But last night the China Boy contract stood between Western and utter failure. Tonight it didn’t. Nothing did. They were done.

  He straightened up and started to put the gun belt on when he was aware of someone watching him. He wheeled, to see Celia standing by the door just inside the room.

  “What’s it going to get you, Cole?” Celia asked quietly.

  “I’d sort of like to leave my mark anyway,” Cole drawled. “When Ted gets enough money saved again to start Western he’s not goin’ to have to fight Keen Billings.”

  “They’ll get you,” Celia said in a tight voice. “You can’t fight a whole town, Cole!”

  “Maybe.” Cole picked up his hat.

  Celia wanted to cry out, to stop him. She couldn’t let him go this way, walking out to kill a man and be killed himself. But she wasn’t going to stop him, she knew. There are times when a man’s own code is in question, and he has to act according to his lights, foolish or suicidal or rash. And those times, if he is a man like Cole Armin, there is no way a woman can stop him. He has to do it. Celia understood that when she said good-by to Cole, misery in her face.

  Juck spoke from behind her. “I’ll watch him, Miss Celia. He won’t get in no trouble.”

  Celia shook her head. “It’s no use, Juck. I know.”

  “What if he can’t find Keen Billings?” Juck rumbled.

  “But he will.”

  “Not if I get the word out to Keen in time,” Juck said. He brushed past her, and he did not even see the faint glint of hope in her eyes.

  For some
thing happened to Celia then. If Juck could help that way she could help in another way.

  Cole headed out into the street and down it, bound for the Piute Hotel and Keen Billings. It was almost a relief now to have this worry over, to know that the worst had happened. Not quite the worst, however. The worst would be having Keen Billings go free. Cole felt calm, his nerves keyed up and screwed tight, and they would be that way until it was over. For it never occurred to Cole that it wasn’t Keen Billings who blew in the China Boy.

  The town was just lighting up, but the Piute Hotel lobby was dark when he entered it.

  At his entrance a man rose from one of the lobby chairs and said, “Lookin’ for someone, Armin?”

  Cole hauled up, and Sheriff Linton strolled over to him, a half-smile on his face. Something warned Cole to go a little easy now if he was to play out his string. He said amiably, “Yeah, I’m glad you stopped me, Linton. I have a couple of questions to ask.”

  “Go ahead,” Linton drawled.

  “How do I go about breakin’ my peace bond?” Cole asked gently. “I mean, what have I got to do to forfeit it?”

  “Just get in another ruckus like you were in this afternoon,” Linton said easily. “Only I doubt if you can find a half-dozen men to lie for you like you did today.”

  Cole smiled without humor. “That worked nice, didn’t it?”

  Linton nodded. “Pretty nice. But it won’t work again.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Cole reminded him.

  “I’ll answer it this way,” Sheriff Linton said slowly. “You can hunt Keen Billings, and if you find him you can choose him. But when you go for your gun—and it don’t matter if he goes first, because you’ll rawhide him into it—you’re fair game. You’re dead, in fact.”

  Cole looked searchingly in his eyes. “Maybe,” he said softly.

  “No maybe about it. I’m stickin’ close to you tonight, Armin. You won’t have a prayer of gettin’ away with it.”

  “I’ll take a chance.” Cole said. “Where is he?”

  “Suppose you find him,” Linton suggested.

  “Suppose I do,” Cole answered, a reckless light in his eyes. He went over to the desk, inquired for Billings’ room number and was given it. Linton followed him up the stairs and paused beside him as he knocked on Billings’ door. There was no answer. Cole opened the door and looked into the room. It was dark in here. He walked across to the window, pulled the shade and looked around him.